In twenty-one days, I turn forty years old. Getting another year older has never bothered me as much as it does some people. This year is different. Not because it marks another decade of life. Not because turning forty has any deeper meaning to me than thirty-nine or any other age. This year is different because I feel like I am doing it alone.
That statement is a bit melodramatic. I am far from alone. I am fortunate to be surrounded by amazing family and friends and I try to be mindful about how lucky that makes me. However, there has been someone missing since last April and I can’t help but feel that absence today.
Normally on January 26th, I take some time to call Brandon and tell him happy birthday. I would give him some shit about being older than me and he would remind me that in three more weeks I’d be in the same boat. I can’t call him today and it breaks my heart. Honestly, there has been at least a hundred times since last April that I reached for my phone to send him an article or a picture before I remembered that I couldn’t. But today is the hardest.
All day, these words have been bouncing around in my head. I started typing them out, deleted them, and then decided to try again. They still seem trite, if not a bit selfish. I hope you can forgive a little self-centered rambling, it is cathartic to put these words down and I share them because I know I’m not the only one who is feeling this way.
Happy Birthday, B.